


In Denial

by Lorde_Shadowz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chamber of Secrets, Honorable Severus Snape, M/M, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Powerful Harry Potter, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25852759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lorde_Shadowz/pseuds/Lorde_Shadowz
Summary: Harry Potter has a crush, and is determined to do anything it takes to get the man to notice him. Severus Snape is in denial. And a certain twinkly-eyed headmaster is kicking back with popcorn, to watch the fun, "helping" when necessary.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 4
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter awoke panting, green eyes wide. Again. It was not the first time he'd had that dream- on the contrary, it was the one of the only non-Voldemort, non-Durzkaban dreams he'd had in months, and it terrified Harry more than all of his visions combined. Even with spells, his newly-acquired habit of not meeting anyone in the eye, and rudimentary occlumency, he knew anything he could do would not be enough to keep Snape out of his mind if he wanted in, and he doubted Snape would like what he saw. Scratch that- he _might_ survive, but only because Snape would be laughing so hard that he forgot that he was about to flay him and pour seawater on the raw patches.

Yeah, not good. But Harry was certainly a master of hiding things...when he had to. Fear was an excellent motivator, too, Harry thought grimly as he cast a quick cleaning charm on his pajamas and changed into his school robes- it was no use going to sleep, anyway, not when he would only dream of dark eyes, and pale skin, and- Harry gritted his teeth. This was pathetic. He was the Chosen One again, after the whole fiasco at the Ministry last year, and at this point, he could probably have any girl- or boy for that matter- that he wanted.

But no. Out of every wizard in the whole of Wizarding Britain, it had to be Snape. It has to be his unpleasant, snarky, murderous (literally, actually), git of a Potions Professor. (Well, Defense Professor now, actually, but still in a position of power over him and, incidentally, inclined to use it, mostly to his detriment.) Yeah. His life was over.

He then grabbed a book from his book bag and some parchment and walked quietly down to the common room- it was rather too early to be going down to breakfast- and tried to find something besides schoolwork to distract himself. If he kept thinking, he would eventually start thinking of Snape and just get hard again, so at last, in a futile attempt to draw his thoughts away, he picked up the textbook that had been lying in his lap. And groaned. It was his Potions textbook. But he didn't want to go back to his dorm and get another one, so at last he opened it and flipped it to a random page.

Like almost every page in the book, it was covered by writing, and he was suddenly curious as to who had owned the book before him. It would be a good exercise to distract himself, Harry told himself. And plus, he was genuinely curious.

Slowly, he started flipping through the pages, looking for names and dates in the notes and scribbled annotations on it's frail pages. The school year was 1976, but there was no name that he could look up on the inside cover- written there instead was 'property of the Halfblood Prince'. A shiver ran down his spine as he read the words. Property of the Halfblood Prince. Somehow he knew that would not be the last time he encountered that name. But at the moment, he was enough intrigued by the mystery to ignore his premonitions.

The writer had a sharp wit and a nasty temper, judging by some of the notes he'd seen in the margins- almost like Snape, he thought unbidden, and groaned- and he was evidently very creative, if the invented spells and adapted potions recipes within the book meant anything. And his mother was apparently a gobstones champion, he found, in an entry complaining about his skills and comparing them to hers. Harry, while certainly not the library fanatic Hermione was, was not stupid. He just had to go through the Hogwarts archives, find the class of 1977, and narrow it down to the halfbloods. He wasn't sure what the Prince part meant, but he'd figure it out (and preferably without Hermione's help, considering that she'd ask too many questions he wasn't comfortable answering.

Rising, the Gryffindor Golden Boy headed to the library long before breakfast- for the first time in his life- and snuck in, making sure not to trip the wards.

Half an hour later, he was standing there staring numbly at a stack of newspapers and files and other things he'd dug out of the archives.

The class of 1977 had only a few candidates that would fit most of the criteria, and only one of them fit all of them. His mother even had the family name Prince! And it was incidentally the same man who had been driving him mad these past months.

The first time he'd had that dream he'd been disgusted. Not because of the content in general, or because the subject of it was a man- Hell, he'd had his fair share of naughty dreams. No, it was because it was Snape. As the months went by though, and he saw the man every day, he began to wonder if the feelings were all just his twisted subconscious. Now he knew what he was feeling, and he wasn't sure which was worse: having naughty twisted dreams just because, or actually beginning to fall in love with his hated teacher.

And now he had fallen in love with the man's old Potions text, for Merlin's sake!

Harry huffed a deep sigh and walked down to breakfast (after a short stop to grab his book bag). Once there, he sat down and waited for the food to appear- he was, after all, still the first person in the Great Hall. Once the hall started to fill up with chattering students, He finally selected his breakfast, although he did not do much more than stab at it although the bacon had personally affronted him and the eggs had insulted his parentage.

"Hey Harry,"

Harry looked up with an inaudible sigh. It was Ginny who had plunked her rear beside him, and she was probably going to drag him into a long and uninteresting conversation. But he just didn't have the heart to tell her that he was gay. "Hey Ginny," was his quiet reply, before he resumed scanning the hall, waiting for Snape (who was never a morning person) to appear.

"Which class do you have next?" she persisted.

"Oh, uh, Potions," Harry said, and his stomach lurched. Damn, he'd forgotten about that. His saving grace was that Professor Snape was the Defense teacher now- he would have been unable to control his blush if he'd had to face him after that particularly pleasurable dream the night before, and that would _definitely_ arouse his suspicions. "You?" he managed.

"Charms," she replied, seemingly oblivious. "Are you going to eat that or just feed it to Ron?"

Harry looked down at his decidedly mauled food. "Oh, um...you can have it."

She paused, looking at him intently, almost shaking him out of his daze with her knowing glance. "You've got a crush, don't you?"

Harry jumped, staring at her. "Wh-what?"

"Don't try to tell me you don't; I've only seen that look on one person, and that was Percy when he was talking to Penelope."

Harry blushed. "It's not like it's ever going to work," he muttered.

"You're the Chosen One," Ginny protested, though there was a little tinge of sadness in her eyes. "Who wouldn't want you?"

Harry stabbed at his food viciously, without reply.

"Come on, I know that you'll get your princess in the end. But when you do, I'm _dying_ for details about who stole the Chosen One's heart! " Ginny went on. "I won't pressure you to tell- even if I'm _really_ curious. But you better tell someday..."

"I will," Harry reassured her, glad she was supporting him in this. He'd half-worried that she would cry, and he'd felt horrible bursting her bubble. But it seemed like she was taking it well... "Only it's not a princess," he muttered, so quietly she couldn't hear. "It's the Halfblood Prince."

Potions was, as usual (all though not usual for this year) was a disaster. Slughorn was having them brew a Circe's Salve, but all Harry could think of was the spidery, elegant writing scribbled between every line of his borrowed Potions text, and the pale, potion-stained hands which, he imagined, had once caressed the fragile pages by candlelight, and- _don't think of that_ , he thought in panic, very glad of his thick robes. With a jerk of his head, he forced himself to focus. If Snape knew what reaction he had on the young Gryffindor, Harry had no doubt that that the Potions Master would die laughing. How pathetic was he if he couldn't even brew a potion without daydreaming about him!

It was that moment that his salve made a few sad little slurping noises and began to smoke. Harry banished it with a swipe of his wand, going red. "Professor Slughorn?" he called.

"Yes my boy?"

Harry gritted his teeth, sensing his flush extending further along his neck and behind his ears. "May I please try again?"

"Of course, of course, my boy, no problem. No harm in being distracted..."

Harry got up and walked across the room to the ingredients cupboard, to collect the ingredients he needed: Egyptian mead vinegar, phoenix ash, hyssop, rosemary, verbena, unicorn tears, Antipodian Opaleye blood, and spices (he already had enough orange zest at his station, as he had distractedly zested too much). On his way back, Draco Malfoy called "I bet Potter's crushing on the Weasel girl," rather too loudly, as if he were hoping that Harry would overhear. Harry blushed a little more, thinking of his true crush, and then abruptly burst out laughing as he imagined the look on Malfoy's pointed aristocratic face if he knew who his real crush was. Malfoy, who had been guffawing with his friends at Harry's lack of taste in choosing a "blood-traitor" looked confused at his humor, but Harry only returned to his station and got to work again, this time diligently ignoring his compulsion to seek his Potions Master out and snog him against the wall (well, mostly).

This time the Circe's Salve, while not Potion Master's grade by any means, was at least more than passable, and Harry smiled as he spooned some of the slimy herbal mixture into a jar to turn in, and surreptitiously put more of it in a jam jar when Slughorn was not looking; he very often needed potions for various reasons, and he preferred not having to sneak to the Chamber or the Rooms of Requirement or the boarded-up girls' bathroom on the third floor to brew in imperfect conditions with no supervision, like he'd had to do when he could not pocket any of the healing potions in the weeks before the end of term in Snape's class.

After he had packed the Half-Blood Prince's book and the Circe's salve in his bag, he thanked Slughorn for the class and followed his friends out the door like usual, leisurely making his way towards the Great Hall for lunch. Halfway there, Hermione asked him where he was going.

"To lunch," Harry responded, surprised.

"It's Defense," was her response.

Harry closed his eyes briefly. A whole class period with Snape. He was doomed.

The class itself wasn't so bad. It was actually quite interesting, being that it was about inferi, a product of several Egyptian necromantic rituals, which were often used as guards or soldiers. But it was the fact that he made a fool of himself in front of the Potions master that made it the worst part of his day.

**"Let us ask Potter how we would tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost,"** Snape asked abruptly. Harry, hearing his name, jerked out of a rather inappropriate daydream to realize that the entire class, plus Professor Snape, were staring at him. Harry **hastily tried to recall what Dumbledore had told him the night that they had gone to visit Slughorn.**

**"Er – well – ghosts are transparent –" he said** , his mind still fixed on the Potion Master in his not-so-official capacity, fantasizing about what, exactly, might be under those heavy black teaching robes.

**"Oh, very good," interrupted Snape, his lip curling. "Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. _Ghosts are transparent_."**

Ok, he did sort of deserve that one. He was only slightly mollified by the thought, though- why in Merlin's name did Snape make it his life's work to come up with creative invective for the special purpose of leveling it at him?! Just once, wasn't he allowed to have a break? Judging by Pansy's whiny giggle and the universal smirks of the Slytherins, (seriously, did they take classes in that, or did they just learn from observation) he guessed not.

**Harry took a deep breath and continued calmly, though his insides were boiling,** and not all with anger. **"Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are dead bodies, aren't they? So they'd have to be solid –"**

**"A five-year-old could have told us as much,"** the Potions Master hissed. **"The Inferius is a corpse that has be reanimated by a Dark wizard's spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard's bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth ... and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, _transparent_."**

**"Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we're trying to tell them apart!"** Ron quickly broke in, defending him. **"When we come face to face with one down a dark alley we're going to be have a shufti to see if it's solid, aren't we, we're not going to be asking, 'Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?'"**

**There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class.**

**"Another ten points from Gryffindor," said Snape. "I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room."**

Harry might have been more angry, except he was more interested in Snape's pink lips. Damn that man! Harry forced himself to take out some more parchment and resume note-taking after that, and he did not look up.

Well, more than a few times. Seriously, had the twins slipped him some sort of lust potion? He wouldn't put it past them.

All the same, he was quite glad when the class was over, because he just couldn't stand Snape's sneers and condescending looks. Especially with how he was feeling about him. He wanted to at least try to express his feelings to Snape, at some point, but he just couldn't figure out how, considering that the man hated him so much.

A Gryffindor would jump him in the halls when there was no one else around, or possibly pin him against a wall and snog him during detention. A Ravenclaw would probably write him anonymous letters, or even send him an official courtship gift. A Hufflepuff would offer to help him prepare ingredients or grade papers, perhaps, or try to start a conversation about feelings. A Slytherin? Well, a Slytherin would coerce him, or perhaps drug him...or take advantage of feelings that were already there, if there were. Harry was not sure whether there were or not, to be honest. A Slytherin might also slip him veritaserum, but Harry would rather _not_ be disemboweled when Snape figured out what he had done. A Slytherin would bide his time, until he figured out whether the feelings were returned, which they were probably not, since he didn't think Snape liked men in the first place. All the same, he'd never actually seen Snape with _anyone_ , so...so he would have to become very Slytherin.

"So when you're finished daydreaming, Potter, would you mind telling the class what is the difference between greater and lesser inferi?"

Harry jerked back to attention. "A greater inferius is a wizard whose soul is unnaturally reunited with his body. A lesser inferius...um...is just animated?"

"A textbook answer, and not what I asked. Are you even capable of being attentive to anything more edifying than a quiddich game?"

Harry fumed. He _had_ , actually, heard the question this time, and he had made a conscious effort to answer it...and even Snape had admitted it was a correct answer, if not particularly inspired. He was _so_ tired of this! "Would you mind repeating the question then?" he said quietly, trying not to lose his (admittedly inflammatory) temper.

"I asked you what is the difference in the methods used to combat greater and lesser inferi," Snape responded condescendingly.

That had _not_ been what he had asked, and Harry was not the only one who had noticed it, as most of the Gryffindors were muttering furiously. Harry took a deep breath, trying to remember the correct response; he didn't want to antagonize Snape further. "A greater inferius may be reasoned with. A lesser inferius is not rational, nor is it able to be killed by the ordinary methods- it's greatest, and only, fear is fire. So you can talk to a greater inferius, although you're probably safer setting it on fire, but the only usable option for dealing with a lesser inferius is to set it on fire."

Snape sneered coldly. "Mindless Gryffindor babbling does not impress me. Try a real answer."

And Harry lost his temper entirely. "I answered it. What more do you want?" The Gryffindor side of the room gasped.

"I want you to give some impression that I've actually managed to instill something in the organ you seem to think is a brain these past six years!"

"Well good luck with that, because you've set me up to fail."

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for disrespect, Potter!" Snape spat at him, gorgeous black eyes flashing.

Harry paled. "F_ck you, Snape," he snarled, trying to ignore the heat that that statement aroused in him. He would love to, actually. And amid the gasps of his entire class, he grabbed his wand and his bag and stalked out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Severus was _not_ in the best of moods. If you were to ask any of his students (or colleagues, or acquaintances) they would likely tell you that he was _never_ in an even tolerable mood, but, then, Severus didn't exactly care about their imbecilic opinions and fruitless complaining. Especially today, as he had come back from a Death Eater meeting at long last midnight, been forced to report while bleeding out, and then had about four hours of sleep before Minerva knocked on his door to tell him that if he didn't hurry up, he would miss his first class.

Said class was the usual, squirming, chattering Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw first years who nearly wet themselves at his presence and were very easy to intimidate, making it not nearly as satisfying to take out his frustration on them. Which was unfortunate indeed, because he frustrated in every sense of the word, and the worst part of it was that next period he would have to deal with Potter. Potter. The son of his best friend and the man he hated nearly as much as the Dark Lord, and only marginally less than Bellatrix Lestrange. The Savior of Wizarding Britain. The Gryffindor Golden Boy. The arrogant, insubordinate, hot-headed _gorgeous_ young hero, who would likely sooner spit in his face then return his feelings, which was lucky because damn it, did he just call Potter gorgeous?! Potter? The bane of his existence? His _student_? Severus tried to occlude the mess of feelings churning in his gut and ended up only exacerbating the dull pounding in his skull.

The class ended with both the Hufflepuff and the Ravenclaw houses being down fifty points each, one Hufflepuff crying, and the assignment of a rather large essay on general healing potions, and Severus had to take a calming draught. Because the next class would be the Slytherin and Gryffindor 6th years, and he _really_ didn't need that right now.

The class itself wasn't so bad. Severus had always liked the Dark Arts, and the defense against them, perhaps even a little too much. In particular, today's lesson was about Egyptian necromantic rituals, like embalmed guardians, _shabiti_ and inferi, an area that he had always been quite interested in; he might once have even have gone into cursebreaking, (perhaps with an emphasis on the Potions aspect). That is, if he had not been trapped into servitude to a madman. And just like that, his mood soured.

Severus narrowed his eyes. Of he was going to be frustrated and angry, then he wouldn't be the only one. He glanced around the room, looking for a victim. There! Potter, for once, (as he had been actually making an effort this year, much to Severus's surprise and annoyance) seemed to be daydreaming, staring into the distance with a cute blush on his face. Damnit! Severus Snape did not _do_ "cute"!

"Let us ask Potter how we would tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost," Snape asked abruptly. Potter jumped, the blush deepening.

"Er – well – ghosts are transparent –" he said, with a look rather reminiscent of a deer in the headlights.

"Oh, very good," interrupted Snape, his lip curling. "Yes, it is easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. _Ghosts are transparent_." Seriously, did that boy make it his life's mission to drive him mad?

Potter flushed, seemily forcing himself to calm down. At least he seemed to have _some_ instinct of preservation. "Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are dead bodies, aren't they? So they'd have to be solid –"

"A five-year-old could have told us as much," Severus hissed, not mollified in the slightest. If he was aroused by the fire in those emerald eyes...well, no one would have to know. No one _could_ ever know. Severus hastily went on, thankful for his thick and starched teaching robes. "The Inferius is a corpse that has be reanimated by a Dark wizard's spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard's bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth ... and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, _transparent_."

"Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we're trying to tell them apart!" Ronald Weasley broke in, interrupting him. Which he _really_ shouldn't have done. Severus's rage increased even more. "When we come face to face with one down a dark alley we're going to be have a shufti to see if it's solid, aren't we, we're not going to be asking, 'Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?'"

There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Severus gave the class.

"Another ten points from Gryffindor," Severus hissed, totally furious."I would expect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room."

Potter ducked his head and pulled out a roll of parchment, his blush growing still more heated. Them Severus went on with his lecture, carefully not looking at him. Well, more than a few times. Damn him! How could the boy- man, really- be so beautiful and so powerful and so...unattainable. An so like his parents. Severus scowled and redoubled his efforts to infuriate his student. If he made him hate him, then perhaps he would not be so tempted.

All the same, he was quite glad when the class was over, because he just couldn't stand looking at the Gryffindor and being reminded, yet again, of all the mistakes he had ever made and all the things he could never have. Like Harry. Damn, why was he calling him Harry now?!

But he knew why. He would give anything to be able to be able to hold Potter, to taste those plump red lips, to-

Severus snarled low in his throat. What was wrong with him?! Potter was his student, and old enough to be his son. He was, truly, as bad as the Mauraders had always presumed. Lusting after a student! The Golden Boy, no less. How was he supposed to teach like this? He had attempted an anti-aphrodisiac before, but he was allergic to kirin horn, and the only other option would be to sterilize himself completely. Which he might have to do if this...fixation continued. He did not at all want to do that, but he had to do _something_ before he snapped and assaulted him. He didn't believe he could live with himself if he did that, and he knew he would sooner die than see fear, or wors. disgust in Potter's clear, innocent green eyes.

When Severus could finally bring himself to look at Potter, he realized that the Gryffindor was daydreaming again. Somehow that only made him still more angry. And he couldn't help himself. He _had_ to provoke a reaction from him. "So when you're finished daydreaming, Potter, would you mind telling the class what is the difference between greater and lesser inferi?"

Potter jerked his head up, green eyes focussing hastily. "A greater inferius is a wizard whose soul is unnaturally reunited with his body. A lesser inferius...um...is just animated?"

"A textbook answer, and not what I asked." It had actually been quite a good answer, and it _had_ actually been what he'd asked, but something sick and twisted within the Potions Master warmed at the thought of provoking him, of holding his power over him, of making him, for a moment, be as miserable as Severus had been all his life. And besides, there were the masks he had to wear, the role he had to play, and he had to make Potter hate him, even though he would rather hold him and never let him go. "Are you even capable of being attentive to anything more edifying than a quiddich game?"

It didn't even get a rise out of Potter. "Would you mind repeating the question then?" he said quietly, teeth gritted delicately.

"I asked you what is the difference in the methods used to combat greater and lesser inferi," Snape responded, making his voice condescending.

That had _not_ been what he had asked, and Potter was not the only one who had noticed it. Most of the other Gryffindors were muttering furiously, and even some of his snakes looked angry or amused.

Potter sucked in a deep breath."A greater inferius may be reasoned with. A lesser inferius is not rational, nor is it able to be killed by the ordinary methods- it's greatest, and only, fear is fire. So you can talk to a greater inferius, although you're probably safer setting it on fire, but the only usable option for dealing with a lesser inferius is to set it on fire."

Snape sneered coldly, hiding how impressed he was; that was a response that most masters couldn't give, considering how little knowledge there was out there on inferi. "Mindless Gryffindor babbling does not impress me. Try a real answer."

At that, Potter lost his temper entirely. "I answered it. What more do you want?" The Gryffindor side of the room gasped.

Severus forcibly occluded his feelings."I want you to give some impression that I've actually managed to instill something in the organ you seem to think is a brain these past six years!"

"Well good luck with that, because you've set me up to fail." He was right, and Severus felt still more miserable at that. What kind of petty, hateful, sour old man was he?

"Fifty points from Gryffindor for disrespect, Potter!" Severus spat at him, trying to force down his feelings.

Potter paled. "F_ck you, Snape," he snarled, and Severus felt as though he had been struck in the face, even as his traitorous body throbbed at that particular thought. Amid the gasps of the entire Gryffindor-Slytherin 6th year class, Potter grabbed his wand and his bag and stalked out of the room.

"Twenty points from Gryffindor and get out," Severus hissed at the remaining students. "You have an essay on greater inferii due next Tuesday."

"But-" began one foolish student.

"Five points from Slytherin, Miss Bulstrode, and do not make me repeat myself," Severus hissed, shooing her out of the classroom like the rest. Once she was gone, Severus let his head fall into his hands with a hopeless sigh. He couldn't continue like this! He would have swallowed aconite, but he still had his obligations for Dumbledore to fulfill, so he would just have to brew that sterilizing elixir. It would take a month to brew, but after years of spying on the Dark Lord, one more month of torture was manageable. Just one more month...

He really needed a firewhiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muahaha! So the clock is ticking. Poor Harry has a month to show him he loves him!


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stalked from the Defense classroom, nearly in tears. If he hadn't ruined any chance he had with the Potions Master before, this definitely did it. But he couldn't just stand there taking the bastard's abuse! But dear Merlin, Severus- damn it, Professor Snape- was so hot when he's angry. Harry moaned at that, then focused his attention on adjusting the heavy book bag on his shoulder. He needed air; he was so aroused by now it was physically painful.

He would be fine if he could just be to be alone for a while. He went up to the Gryffindors' boys' dorm, but Dean, who had had a stomach ache and left Potions early that morning, was there, and Harry restlessly left the dorm. The common room certainly had no privacy, considering that the third years were on a break this period, and he didn't exactly want to barricade himself in the lavatory or the showers and rouse his dorm mates' suspicions. And he didn't want to go outside, since then he would be more likely to be hunted down by a commiserating Ron, a self-righteous Hermione, or a flirting fan like Ginny or Romilda Vane.

And so, in desperate need just to get away from everything, he made his way (carefully concealed by the invisibility cloak that he always carried everywhere with him, at least these days) up to the seventh floor, to go to the Rooms of Requirement. Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one there; when he tried to open it, a pack of Ravenclaw firsties, who had been using the Room as a library, yelped as it turned into a lounge decorated with Gryffindor colors, and Harry, not wanting to deal with it, turned away once again. There was only one place left that he could think of to get away. The Chamber of Secrets.

He made it to Myrtle's loo in record time, but as he approached the engraved tap which was the secret entrance to the Chamber, the moaning ghost popped up behind him in a rather unattractive gurgle of toilet water.

"Harry," she complained, voice whiny and much too loud, "why haven't you come and talked to meee?"

Damn. That ghost was worse than all his other fans combined, except perhaps for Colin Creevey, who seemed to have made it his life's goal to try to snap pictures of Harry at the most inopportune moments possible. "I'm sorry, Myrtle, he responded, hopefully without letting any of his irritation show on his face. "I've been so busy lately..."

"Busy, busy, busy! Everyone's too busy to talk to me!"

Harry resisted the urge to cover his ears. "I'm sorry," he said again. "It's just- the war, you know?" He was not going to confide anything personal to the whiny ghost.

"The war!" Harry thought for a moment that he had upset her again, but then realized that her eyes were shining, as always when something tragic or gory was spoken of. "So how's it going?"

"Well enough," Harry replied vaguely, edging towards the tap. The sooner he was out of here, the better.

"My offer still stands, you know!" she called after him, and Harry covered his shudder by hissing the password to the Chamber of Secrets at the false tap, watching it spin rapidly and sink so that a great, gaping tunnel, its mouth flush with the dingy floor, lay open to him. As soon as the revolving stopped, he jumped straight into the shaft to avoid more off Myrtle's _offers_ ; as if he wanted to spend eternity in a dilapidated bathroom sharing Myrtle's u-bend when he died!

The tunnel was, as it had been the first time, slimy as the gut of a basilisk, and Harry was hard-pressed to keep his eyes and mouth shut to keep the slime from getting in his orifices as he went down it, but at last he landed in a pile of rat bones and refuse- good gods, this hadn't been the best idea in the world, had it- and cleaned himself off with a few household spells.

He stood there for a moment, trying to catch his breath and forget the taste of thousand-year-old pipe slime, and then he began to stroll down the partially collapsed tunnel, reminiscing about the first time he had been here. He saw the shed basilisk skin, partially covered with some of the crushed rock that had fallen from the ceiling when Lockhart had tried to obliviate Ron and him, saw all the bones and the little creepy snake statuettes, saw the fragments of Ron's old broken wand and chocolate frog wrapper- what was that doing here. He came to the place where the tunnel had fallen in and climbed through the ragged hole left from Ron's attempt to come to his aid during the rescue mission, then went down the tunnel until he came to the door that opened out into the vast, gloomy Chamber of Secrets.

_~Open,~_ he hissed, and then the carven snakes slithered across the door as though they were alive, and it swung open, letting him into Slytherin's innermost sanctum, the place where he had not been since the afternoon when he had gone after his best friend's baby sister to save her from a fate worse than death, ending up killing a basilisk and a two thousand year old killer snake. Speaking of said snake... Oh, gods, had he actually been the one to kill that? With a sword?

The basilisk had been scary enough in his second year; it had been as large and surreal as a monster in a fairytale, the most terrifying thing that he could come up with short of Quirrelmort in his first year. Now, with older eyes, he could truly appreciate the danger he had been in; not the terror and adrenaline-soaked memories he had of fighting the thing, but actually seeing it, actually realizing, for the first time, that he had somehow- Merlin only knew how- killed a sixty foot basilisk with a sword and a pet bird at the age of twelve. Twelve. The age that most children weren't even allowed in Hogsmeade, he had had to kill a basilisk and a fifty-year old fragment of a dark wizard's soul, trapped in a book.

He cast a spell to evaporate the water which had been pooling on the floor for millennia, and approached the beast to take a good look at it, momentarily forgetting why he was there.

It was sixty feet long, covered with acid green scales, and still nearly preserved (not even microbes could eat the highly toxic basilisk flesh). Dried, crusted blood was still in evidence where it had dripped from the creature's eaten-out eye sockets and mouth, and more traces of it were on the floor, while even its tongue seemed as though it was still moist, evaporation being very slow in a damp dark room that was always filled with moisture due to the lake water that was always seeping in through the walls, nor was there any mold on it, both because it would not have been a good medium (too toxic) and because there seemed to be parselmagic anti-mold spells, which were actually rather helpful.

He still couldn't believe the fact that he had killed this thing at the age of twelve.

Harry stared at the basilisk for another long moment, letting it burn itself into his retinas, before at last straightening and walking away, wandering around the Chamber to look at the great serpentine columns and statues. Near the furthermost part of the Chamber was the great statue of Salazar Slytherin himself, the opening to the basilisk's kennel. He closed his eyes briefly, remembering, and wondered vaguely what would happen if he were to repeat the words Tom Riddle had used to call forth the basilisk.

_~Speak to me Salazar, greatest of Hogwarts four.~_ Harry barely registered that he had spoken aloud until, with a rumbling, grinding noise, the mouth of the statue sink open again. Harry hesitated, but then curiosity got the better of him- he _did_ have a free period, after all- and he walked to the mouth of the passage that had opened up and looked in.

The tunnel formed looked clean and large enough for an adult wizard (or a sixty-foot basilisk) to go through, and it was lit with torches that glowed a constant, eternal green, adding to the gloom and Slytherin aesthetic. Harry slowly put one foot in, expecting ever minute to set off a trap or encounter a particularly nasty ward, but nothing happened, and after a little tense waiting he set his other foot in the tunnel. Still nothing. No trapdoors opened to carry him to his doom, no blood wards scorched him as he tried to go on. Harry took another few tentative steps into the tunnel... And that was when it happened. With a horrible grinding of stone on stone, the mouth of Salazar's statue fell shut, trapping Harry in the void beyond it.

So he was alone, standing in a narrow, moist tunnel permeated by the musty smell of reptiles, watching the torches gutter and flare up in the gloom, casting eldritch green shadows that did not light the tunnel farther than a few meters ahead of him. Okay, so maybe going in here had not been his brightest idea. Something deep within him wondered, With that strange detachment that comes with shock, if his body would ever be found. He doubted it. No doubt Salazar's ghost would be laughing his arse off somewhere in the aether. Dear Merlin, his life was horrible. He'd come down here to have a few moments of quiet and maybe a private wank and now was stuck here, possibly for eternity if he didn't find a way out or Fawkes didn't get his feathered arse over here.

Harry, having nothing better to do, began to head down the tunnel, not particularly wanting to try to blast his way out unless no other options afforded themselves; he didn't want to bring the whole of Hogwarts down on his head. With his luck, there might be a secret passage way that would spit him out on the roof of Hogwarts or something.


End file.
